


Sense Reflection

by itbloomedforyourlittlegirl



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Angst, F/F, Mild character death, no happy endings here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:53:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24575605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itbloomedforyourlittlegirl/pseuds/itbloomedforyourlittlegirl
Summary: It always leads back to this room. Paint marking first steps in a patchy discolouration of love and art. The scent of sweet cinnamon and bitter coffee filtering through the air. Your heart at double speed under my ear. The taste of strawberries and cigarettes on our tongues. It always leads back to this room.Sara's POV. - Angst one-shot.
Relationships: Sara Sidle/Catherine Willows
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	Sense Reflection

It always leads back to this room.

We painted this room together. Your room. Our room. The boys were 'helping', flopped down on your sofa and watching the remainder of the game whilst I assisted you in finishing the second coat in the bedroom. There has always been a faint patch on the alabaster wall where your back collided with the still wet paint, and I took the leap and kissed you for the first time - it never quite covered correctly, marking our first steps in a patchy discoloration of love and art.

The same room in which I awoke on my 38th birthday to the aroma of cinnamon and coffee. You and Lindsey at the foot of the bed, grinning wide enough for your lips to touch your ears, singing an out of tune 'Happy Birthday', and holding matching trays of cinnamon pancakes and coffee. I stretched, grinned right back at you, and reveled in the happiness that swelled in my chest.

That was our first night together. Our first  _ intimate _ night together. Lindsey had a sleepover, not unusual for the ever-growing 15-year-old. You took me to a little Italian, cliché, I know, and I surely teased you about it but it didn't matter because it was you and I, your golden curls and your burgundy dress. We skipped dessert, caught a cab home, and stumbled through the door, up the stairs, and into the same wall that I first kissed you against.

It always leads back to this room.

After, both exhausted, eyes hazy in sated bliss, you pulled me into you, brushing my hair from my perspiring forehead, you kissed it lazily, and I listened to your heart beating steadily with my head on your chest knowing that there's nowhere else I'd rather be.

We rarely did anything without passion and force. Our first argument as a couple was unlike the heated disagreements at work. Instead of yelling right back at you, I was too scared to lose you, so I was silent. I walked out. Stupid move on my part, but you, magnificent you, found my hiding spot on the roof of my apartment block. Not a very good one considering we'd sat for hours and shared stories previously on nights just like this where the wind whipped around your shoulders, and I gave you my seater. But, it was your night off and I was naive enough to think you wouldn't come after me.

You asked me why I ran, why you weren't worth fighting for. I told you that wasn't it. I told you I was terrified of losing you or losing the part of me you'd become. That I didn't know how to be me without you. I took one last, long drag of my cigarette and stubbed it out.

I told you I had fallen so hard for you.

You whispered, "me too," it almost mingled too well with the wind.

I almost didn't hear it.

Almost.

You took my hand into yours, your thumb rubbed back and forth across the pulse on my wrist. My eyes welled, yours glistened with unshed tears and you kissed me, conveying without words the sincerity of our feelings.

You tasted like strawberries from the rosé you had been drinking, and I'm sure I tasted like cigarettes.

There's a hole in the patch on the ivory wall which is now stained a deep red, almost black, from where your back collided with it and your knees buckled.

I screamed.

I lunged for him.

It was too late.

_ I was too late. _

I'm nauseated by the scent; metallic and sickening. My stomach churns and I heave, briefly remembering my 38th birthday, the sweet cinnamon, the bitter coffee.

I rest my head upon your chest, your fingers stroke through my hair by default and I'd almost still be waiting for it if it wasn't for me clutching your limp hand, with no steady beat repeating under my ear.

The metallic taste that coats my tongue as my lips meet yours for the very last time, nothing like the strawberries and cigarettes I have burned to memory.

I'm saying goodbye with silent tears, the break in my chest is loud enough to fill the silence.

It always leads back to this room.

  
  



End file.
